Words Will Remain
by Fainting In Coils
Summary: The chronicling of the life of Mara, a Bosmeri elf running from her homeland. A woman who will one day come to be known as The Dragonborn. Though she may be charged with saving Skyrim from both dragons and itself, she cares most about the words that will keep record of the truth of her actions forever.
1. Claiming My Words

May these words be guided by Y'ffre, the Storyteller of my ancestors' homeland; Xarxes, the greatest of all scribes; and by Mara, mother goddess for whom I was named.


	2. Escape

Sundas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E201

I have managed to escape the clutches of my captors—both the first, and the second—but my heart is not as full as it likely should be. I feel the loss of my words keenly, but there is no retrieving them. My second escape was made good by a dragon, and though his fiery breath gave me my freedom, it also consumed the books in which I chronicled my life. They were in a soldier's saddlebags, along with the belongings of the other prisoners, and now they are nothing more than so much ash wafting through the air above Helgen's charred remains.

The Stormcloak thought me mad when I followed the Imperial soldier—Hadvar—into the keep: I could see it in his eyes as I turned away from him. True, my head was on an _Imperial_ chopping block, and the Stormcloaks were the first to call out to me with offers of aid... But I care not. The fact remains that were it not for the Stormcloaks, I would not have been in such a mess in the first place. If their would-be-king, Ulfric, had not stirred up the Empire with his rabble-rousing and his murderous actions, there would have been no Imperial ambush for me to stumble upon and be swept in. The transport cart may have belonged to the Empire, but there would have been no need for it without the Stormcloaks. I place all blame squarely on their broad Nordic shoulders, and gladly.

All of that aside... I have had quite enough of changing hands from one group of hostile, ridiculous men to the next, both in my homeland and in this barren, snowy place. Better to have remained with a known enemy than to leave with strangers I knew nothing of. And better to have taken my chances with only one man, rather than a group.

So far, Hadvar has been good to me, though it has only been a day. He has given me no reason to regret my choice, and that is all I can ask of him. I can worry about all the rest once I have slept... If I can sleep at all. I still cannot believe that dragons are real, just as my dear sister has always said. I cannot believe that they have returned to our skies.

I cannot believe that I have seen one, and lived to dwell on it.

I pray that I will never have to see one again.


	3. Riverwood

Morndas, 18th of Last Seed, 4E201

I feel unexpectedly better now that I have rested in a proper bed. I am in Riverwood, a pleasant enough village, making use of the unexpected but most welcome hospitality of Hadvar's uncle, Alvor. The blacksmith has been very helpful, providing me with both supplies and information, at the cost of nothing more than a simple favor. He has requested that I pass news of the dragon, along with a call for aid, to Jarl Balgruuf. Whiterun seems as good a destination as any, and as such the task is no trouble at all.

Alvor's wife, Sigrid, amuses me greatly. She has been nothing but kindness since the moment we met, other than warning me away from her man. She called me pretty in the same breath, and I wondered with a smile what she would have done had I made it known that her husband had more cause to worry about spouse-theft than she. I said nothing, however—I have no desire to stir up trouble unnecessarily—and thus our time together has been very pleasant. Even the couple's daughter, little Dorthe, does nothing to bother me. She is a sweet child, though constantly pressing food upon me. Already my pack is half full of apples, cheese, and bread, and I think I saw her slipping in a handful of carrots just as I was leaving her house at dawn.

Alvor has spent some time teaching me the basics of his craft, and I am surprised at how enjoyable I find it. Not so much the hammering of metal, though I enjoy the sound of the action greatly, but the working of leather. It calms me, and is a practical skill that I am amazed I have not picked up already. The helmet I crafted fits quite well, and I have almost completed bracers to go along with it. Alvor has promised to help me with armor, and soon I will be all kitted out, and in something more pleasing than the Imperial armor I have been traipsing about in thus far.

This is convenient, as I will be in need of protection in the following days. I have promised Lucan and Camilla Valerius, proprietors of the Riverwood Trader, that I shall find and retrieve their beloved Golden Claw. I would say this is only because I am curious to explore Bleak Falls Barrow, but it would be a lie. In truth, I need more gold than I can earn with the chopping of firewood and selling of vegetables, and this seems to be the surest way of acquiring it. My only concern is my safety if I am alone. I have heard talk of a Bosmer man, Faendal, who is skilled with a bow. I must think of a way to entice him into joining me on my journey. I have managed to survive too long to let pride be my downfall now.


	4. Foolish Bandits

Tirdas, 19th of Last Seed, 4E201

This morning Dorthe asked me if I had been to the nearby Standing Stones, as she had always wanted to see them but never been allowed. I went to look for them, armed with paper and charcoal to draw the child a picture, but was quickly sidetracked when I stumbled upon Embershard Mine, though I'd been warned away from it by the villagers of Riverwood.

There was a single sentry posted, a Khajiit male who was too busy muttering to himself to notice my approach. I took him out with two arrows, and decided that I would do my hosts the favor of dispatching the rest of his ne'er-do-well crew while I was in the area. Their attempts at security and craftiness were pathetic, and I made my way through the caves picking them off one by one. The last two, great brawny creatures with too much faith in their muscles and swords, nearly caused me a bit of trouble, but I outpaced them and, as with the rest, picked them off with my bow. Their armor fetched me a decent sum at Alvor's smithy, and Sigrid used the stash of snowberries I found to make a pie that delighted us all, though Dorthe the most. Tomorrow I will set forth again, and this time the child will get her sketch. There will be no further chance for it, otherwise, as I think I have found my in with Faendal. The village 'bard'-a pompous man named Sven who is too full of his own looks—has asked me to frame the elf with a damning letter, thus securing Camilla's heart as his own. I plan instead to tell the woman of his treachery. Not only is it just what the man deserves, but I expect Faendal will be so grateful, he will come along and aid me with no argument.

My stomach still turns at Sven's hostility towards Faendal, and even moreso at the superiority he feels based only on his race. How could he be so dim as to think I would not take insult at the way he insults the race of a fellow Bosmer? The fool is stupid, and beyond stupid, and I cannot wait to see the look upon his face as Camilla confronts him. It will do my heart a great deal of good.


	5. Foul Old Crone

Middas, 20th of Last Seed, 4E201

I have journeyed to the Standing Stones, and focused my thoughts and energy on the Thief Stone. I feel lighter on my feet, more at one with the shadows, than ever. I made a detailed sketch of the place, and think it a good use for an entire page of my precious cache of paper. Dorthe's smile will be worth it, and during the course of my roaming I discovered loot enough to recoup the small loss of gold I will face when I purchase paper and charcoal.

Much of what I found I owe to an unexpected, and unwanted, encounter with an old woman in the wilderness. North of the Standing Stones I found a small cabin inhabited by an unassuming old woman named Anise. She seemed glad of my company, and appreciative of the cheese and apples I shared with her when I broke my fast. I went into her cabin—with her blessing-to place another apple on her shelf while she was tending to her garden. In the corner of her hut was a trapdoor leading to the cellar... I meant to resist my curiosity, truly I did, but in the end it won out. I made certain Anise was still occupied with her task, then made short work of the trapdoor's lock. I descended with the intent of taking only a quick look around.

The alchemy lab I found was not unexpected. Anise had admitted to being an amateur alchemist—a hobby of her youth made necessitous by the seclusion of her old age—immediately upon introducing herself. The Arcane Enchanter was a surprise, however. The old woman had made no mention of an affinity for enchantment, and few common citizens of Skyrim have the means to build and maintain an Enchanter of their own. I would have been willing to forgive the strangeness of its existence, though, were it not for the last pieces of the cellar's puzzle.

Human skulls, and a note about Anise's coven, or rather, the coven she desired to create.

I gathered up every useful ingredient that would fit in my packs, feeling not one shred of guilt about stealing from Anise. Old woman she may have been, but not an innocent, nor even close. Witches are vile things, no longer worthy of being called women, driven by lust for power. How any soul could wish to become a creature so horrible as a Hagraven is beyond even my imagining, and my mind is one capable of far-flung, floating daydreams and dark nightmares.

I emerged from the cellar, relieved to find the room still empty, and moved to leave. I had a mind to lave and return under cover of night, to rid Skyrim of this blight in woman form, but I was naïve to think that I would make my escape unhindered. Anise appeared before me, cursing my discovery of her true identity. She hurdled spell after spell my way, but I refused to let her best me. My sword and shield won out over her ill-0btained spells.

I returned to the cellar to make use of the alchemy lab, pleased to have a chance to put my skills to use, and the time to experiment to my heart's content. When I returned to the cabin proper a few hours later, I could hear the sounds of armor and voices approaching from outside. I was just able to draw my sword before two men burst through the doorway, weapons readied, shouting that they would have my head for what I had done. They were wrong, of course, and I had their heads instead.

I did not expect such swift retribution for Anise's death, but I am admittedly ill-versed in the ways of witches. Who can know what foul magics were triggered by the old clone's defeat? Perhaps her coven sisters await me as well, plotting and scheming against me in cabins or towers or caves of their own...

Whatever else may be said of the matter, I will take a morbid joy in the use of Anise's bed to rest my weary bones tonight.


End file.
